I Spoke as a Child
by George P
Summary: After something terrible happens to Frankie, she tries to explain to 9-year-old Mac how the world outside Foster's Home isn't always a nice place - but that he can always choose to be good. Warning: Mature themes. Adult language in Chapter 9.
1. Chapter 1

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 1

The knock on the door was as small as the boy knocking, but it was big enough to be respected.

"Come in!" Frankie called.

She turned off the MP3 player she had been listening to on her bed, pulled out the one earbud she was using and put down the book she had been reading. She had been propping it on her thighs with her knees up but lowered her legs onto the bed at the knocking. Then she pulled her skirt down and smoothed it out.

An instant later, with an instinct she felt without thinking, she repositioned the book over the bottom of her groin. As if it were a shield.

Her bedroom door creaked open slowly, then stopped. The small boy's face emerged just past the edge.

"Frankie …," he said, almost as if he were asking a question, "it's me. Can I come in?"

"Sure, Mac."

He entered the room and shut the door softly. He walked toward the chair by her desk, but all the time – and Frankie noticed this – he kept his eyes on her, as if she were a strange animal he couldn't help but be wary around. He took off his book bag, dropped it on the floor and climbed into the chair.

He looked at the 22-year-old redhead: Same green hooded jacket she always wore. Same purple skirt and cutoff white top with the Powerpuff Girls in color silhouettes. She was wearing her usual orange ankle socks, but her blue-and-white sneakers were casually tossed on the floor next to the bed.

A small silence. Finally, Mac asked, "Um … how are you?" He sounded uncomfortable.

She nodded with a smile. "Good. You?"

"Good."

"Well, that's … good." Another silence. "So how's your mom?"

"She's OK."

"And Terrence?"

"Still a spaz."

She chuckled. "Well, that's what big brothers are for. To pick on you."

"Yeah …"

Frankie closed her eyes and sighed. Well, she thought, might as well greet the elephant in the room.

She opened her eyes and assessed the 9-year-old with the mop of brown hair: As always, the red shirt over a gray long-sleeved flecked sweatshirt. Tan pants and black-and-white sneakers. He looked like the quintessential kid brother.

Which would make this all the more difficult, she thought.

"Did you give your mom my note?" she asked.

"Uh-huh."

"OK. Thanks for doing that. Did she … _talk _to you about the note …?"

"Yeah. She wasn't really happy to learn I'd been going to Foster's after she told me not to."

"I'm sorry about that, Mac. Really. But my message to her was very important."

"She seemed really upset when she read it. I don't know why. She wouldn't let me read it." His eyes turned contrite. "I'm sorry if I made you mad, Frankie ..."

She shook her head. "I'm _not_ mad at you, Mac. You didn't do _anything _wrong. Don't worry about that. I just told her about what happened to me last week. I thought it was better if she explained it to you."

He looked down at the floor and remembered. Remembered the past week.


	2. Chapter 2

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 2

Mac did _not_ like the guy. The guy who came to the house early that evening. He didn't like him at all.

Frankie said she met him at a store earlier that week. They started talking, and he eventually asked her out on a date. She had said yes but admitted she accepted primarily to end his intense insistence, his always returning to the subject. He absolutely wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

But he seemed nice, she said.

He was a big guy and looked very strong. He was nice enough when Frankie introduced him to Madame Foster and even Mac. She preferred not to introduce any imaginary friends at first. She said she _had _told him where she lived and worked – and what that involved – but admitted she didn't want strangers to freak out the first time they visited and encountered the friends. Especially if they weren't going to adopt one.

But Mac didn't feel good looking at him. Even though the guy _acted _nice, he seemed to not like having to meet the boy and the old woman. As if it was something unexpected that he was forced to cope with on the spur of the moment. He glanced around a lot, almost as if he were afraid someone else would show up at any second.

And Mac didn't like how he kept looking at Frankie. Like he was … well, Mac didn't know …

Like he was, maybe, kind of hungry.

Frankie had left with the guy, his arm already draped over her shoulder. She looked uncomfortable and shrugged it off her body with a nervous joke.

The door closed behind them, and Mac did not like the guy. Not at all.


	3. Chapter 3

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 3

The phone call came later that evening. Mac had just said good night to Bloo, who then went upstairs to bed.

Mac watched as Mr. Herriman, Madame Foster's rabbit friend, answered the phone, listened – and went deathly pale.

"Miss Frances!" he shouted into the receiver. "_What_ did you say happened? … WHAT? Are you all right? … Where are you? … DO NOT hang up, Miss Frances! I'll get Madame Foster! Stay on the line! DO NOT hang up!"

He put the receiver down and hopped away so fast, Mac thought he was actually running. A few moments later, he came back ahead of Madame Foster, who seemed to be moving as fast as she possibly could with her cane.

The old woman looked beyond upset. She looked horrified.

Herriman handed her the receiver. "Frankie!" she said in a half-panicked tone, "Herriman told me what happened! Are you OK? … Frankie! _Frankie!_ _Listen_ to me! Now, are you all right? … Are you _listening,_ Frankie? … Where _are_ you? …"

She turned to Herriman. "The Quick-N-Go at Eighth and Oak?" she asked, suggesting with her expression that he should remember it. "Are you _sure_? … OK, now, Frankie, you _stay _there and call 911! Is he anywhere around? … No? Good. If he shows up again, you scream and throw stuff at him! Do you understand, Frankie? Don't let him near you again! _Fight _him if you have to!"

She thought of something in the fluster. "And DON'T CLEAN UP! That's very important, Frankie! DO _NOT_ CLEAN UP!"

A pause while she listened. "Now, calm _down,_ Frankie. Call 911. … No! There's _nothing_ for you to be sorry about! You did _nothing_ wrong! _Nothing._ Do you hear me? … You're a good girl. I _know_ that. … NO! You are NOT trash, Frankie! Stop that right _now! _Call 911 now! Hang up and call it _now!"_

She sighed deeply and listened. "What? … Yes, I love you, too. We _all_ love you. I'm going to hang up now. When I do, call 911. … OK. I'll be down there as soon as I can. … What? …

"Yes, we'll _always _love you … Frances. Call 911. Goodbye."

She hung up the phone and spun around sharply to Herriman. "I'm out of here! You're in charge, bunny!"

"Is Miss Frances in bad shape, Madame?" he asked.

Her eyes sparked. It frightened Mac to see how vicious her old eyes became in that moment. "What the hell do you _think,_ rabbit? Weren't you _listening_? Get my coat! Now!"

They headed down the hallway hurriedly and disappeared. Mac wasn't sure what had just happened. But he knew he didn't feel good about it. He didn't feel good about it at all.

So he decided to wait.


	4. Chapter 4

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 4

"Mac? Mac?"

Mac blinked in the bedroom. Frankie was looking at him curiously. "You OK, kiddo?" she asked.

The boy shook his head. "Sorry. What did you say?"

"I said I thought your mom might be better able to explain to you what happened to me last week. You said you gave her my note, right?"

"Yeah."

"And that she talked to you about what I wrote?"

"Yeah. She did."

"Did you understand what she said?"

"There was … some stuff I didn't _really_ understand," he admitted.

"OK," she said, nodding, "what _did_ you understand?"

He looked away from her. "That that guy … attacked you …"

"That's right. He did."

"And that he hurt you."

"Yes, he did."

Mac squirmed in the chair and looked back at her. "Are you … OK … now?"

She sighed. "Yeah. But in some ways, I'm not."

"Like what?"

"Well … I'm still very upset. Sometimes, I cry. And sometimes, I get very, very angry."

"Like in the kitchen yesterday?"

Frankie looked down into her lap. "Yeah ... like that," she said quietly. "I'm sorry about that, Mac. I really am."

"It's OK."

She took a deep breath and looked up straight ahead – not at the boy. "Did your mom explain … _how _I was attacked ...?"

Mac glanced around. It was as if the answer were somewhere in the room and that if could only find it, he would go pick it up and hand it to her. Finally, he looked back at her, almost afraid.

"Something about … where babies come from …?"

Frankie was silent, still not turned toward him. Finally, she closed her eyes and nodded.

"That's right," she whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 5

Frankie came home later. But not with the guy.

Madame Foster had opened the front door to let her in. The young woman's eyes were rimmed with red, and Mac saw a lot of moisture brimming in them. Her clothes were disheveled, and her ponytail was all messed up.

And there were scratches. Some were on her hands. Others – and there were a lot of them – were just below her skirt, on the fronts and insides of her legs.

Her face was scratched, too, and covered with half-wiped tear tracks. And Mac saw something in it he recognized: He had seen cartoons of a cat chasing a mouse. The mouse was trapped in a corner and looked nervous and scared. It knew it was being hunted. It looked around desperately for escape. Frankie's face looked like that.

And Frankie also looked as if she had been broken into pieces.

A policewoman stepped in after Frankie. Mac knew her. It was Nina Valarosa, the creator of friend Eduardo. She looked almost expressionless, as if she had been in processions like this many times before.

Madame Foster led Frankie to a large sofa in the front lobby. The younger woman practically fell onto it. Madame Foster sat next to her granddaughter and embraced her softly. "You're home, dearie. You're home," she murmured quietly into Frankie's shoulder. "It's all right now … You're safe …" She rubbed Frankie's back slowly, comfortingly.

Mac saw Frankie close her eyes and squeeze out one tear. Then another. Then more. Then they started flowing freely. "Oh, Grandma!" she wailed. "GRANDMA!"

Frankie's legs suddenly curled up onto the sofa, as if she were a baby, as if she were trying to protect her body with them. She hugged Madame Foster tighter and sobbed loudly. It sounded to Mac as if Frankie would never run out of tears.

"Shhh …," Madame Foster whispered. "I'm here, dearie. I'm here …"

Valarosa was talking to Herriman by the front door. "The detectives'll probably get it all from her tomorrow," she said. "There's no point in interrogating her a lot tonight. She needs to settle down."

He nodded. "Understood, officer. Thank you for all your help."

"She fought back, you know. She told us _that_ much. That's why she looks the way she does."

"Miss Frances is a very strong-willed person. That's been clear since I met her when she was a child."

"She didn't want to be a victim. And the recovery people don't call them that. They call them 'survivors.' "

"Which she most certainly is," he said.

"Know how we caught him?" she asked.

"No. How?"

"He lost his wallet in the struggle and didn't notice when he dumped her and fled. We checked his driver's license and knew exactly where to find him. In fact, he was home when we got there."

"I have heard that intelligence has _never_ been a prerequisite for a criminal career."

She chuckled. "What _we_ say is that you don't have to be dumb to be a crook – but you probably are."

"Precisely."

"Well," she said, looking toward Frankie on the sofa, "take care of her. She's going to have it rough for a while."

Herriman straightened a bit. "You can rest assured, officer, that she will have the _very_ best care and support here that she could _ever_ wish for."

She had already opened the door. "Yeah. Well, good night."

"Thank you again. And good night."

The door closed, and Herriman studied the Foster women on the sofa. One, he thought, was anchorless now, adrift, afraid. But the other – the older one – was a steady rock of years. Just what the frightened one needed right now. Most definitely.

Madame Foster looked away from Frankie to address him. "Herriman," she said forcefully, "I don't want us to be disturbed. _See _to it."

"Right away, Madame," he replied. He hopped to the public address terminal, turned it on and lifted the microphone. "Attention, everyone," his announcement boomed. "Your attention, please. Until further notice, no one is allowed in the front lobby. I repeat: Until further notice, no one is allowed in the front lobby. That is all. Thank you."

He hung up, then noticed Mac watching him, watching the entire scene. He hopped to the boy's side. "I'm terribly sorry, Master Mac," he said, "but I'm afraid that I'll have to ask you to leave for the evening now. My apologies."

The boy asked, "Mister Herriman, what happened to Frankie?"

The rabbit didn't answer at first, then sighed. "Miss Frances was … injured … by someone tonight, Master Mac."

"That guy she went out with?"

"… Yes …"

"What happened?"

A deeper sigh. "_That_ … is difficult to explain to someone …" He thought. "… of your tender years. Suffice it to say she will have a difficult recovery ahead of her."

Mac didn't quite understand but let it go. "All right." He went to the door, then faced Herriman again. "Mister Herriman, will Frankie be all right?"

He noticed that the rabbit's face turned very concerned and then slightly sad. "I don't know, Master Mac. I certainly hope so."

Again, the boy couldn't figure out what it meant. "OK. … Good night."

"Good night, Master Mac."

Herriman turned away, and a moment later, he heard the door open and close. He watched the women in the lobby again.

My God, he thought with sorrow after a moment, will Miss Frances _never_ run out of tears?


	6. Chapter 6

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 6

"What _exactly _did your mom tell you, Mac?" Frankie asked in the bedroom.

"Well," the boy said, "she asked me what I learned in school about animals – and, um, where their babies came from. Stuff like that."

"Uh-huh. What did you say?"

"That you needed a mom and dad animal for babies."

She nodded. "That's right." A silence. "Did she say anything about … _people_ …?"

He rolled his eyes. "That you needed a mom and dad, _too._ I _know_ that. Duh!"

She grinned. "Smart boy. Now … did she say anything about how a mom and dad should _feel _about their baby?"

He squinted, unclear of her meaning. "Like how?"

Oh, _God,_ she thought, I hope his mom told him enough. "Well, Mac … a mom and dad should … love each other … before they have a baby. They should _both _want to have a baby. They should both want it _equally._ The mom as much as the dad. Did your mom explain that?"

"Sorta. But doesn't that happen, anyway?"

And after he asked that, Mac noticed Frankie's eyes drifting away the farthest he had ever seen them do.


	7. Chapter 7

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 7

"Mac! Mac! Didja hear? Didja hear?"

Mac hadn't even greeted Bloo when the imaginary friend rushed up to him in the front lobby the next day. "Hear _what,_ Bloo?"

"Frankie got sick last night!"

The boy was confused. "_Sick?_"

"Yeah. Herriman told us Frankie wasn't feeling well when she came home last night."

"I know," Mac replied. "I saw her. But she wasn't _sick_. I don't … _think_ so. How is she now?"

The blue blob shook what served as his head. "Dunno. Herriman told us at breakfast. Everyone's pretty bummed out about it. He said she was going to be in her room all day. Told us not to bother her."

"She looked pretty bad when I saw her last night."

Bloo suddenly looked around, as if he were making sure no one else was within earshot. He returned to Mac and leaned in closer. "I think she has a _contagious disease,_" he whispered.

"What?" Mac yelled.

"SHHH!" Bloo waved his arms wildly to quiet the boy, then looked around again to check the area. He continued to whisper: "It makes _sense,_ Mac!"

Mac narrowed his eyes skeptically. "_How?_"

"_Because_," the friend said with great importance, "Madame Foster then told us _herself_ that no _guys _could talk to Frankie – or even _see_ her – until she said it was OK." He crossed his arms in great satisfaction. "_That's_ why."

"That's strange," the boy admitted.

"Like I said, it makes _sense._ I overheard Herriman and Madame Foster talking about it after breakfast. She was telling him about what happened before Frankie came home. She said she took Frankie to the hospital. And there were _cops,_ Mac! _Cops!_ They must have been scared she'd spread the disease around."

"Officer Valarosa came to the house with Frankie and Madame Foster last night. But I don't think …"

Bloo waved his arms again. "There! That _proves_ it! And you know what _else?_"

"No," Mac said dryly. "_What?_"

"Madame Foster said that when they got to the hospital, these two lady nurses came out and took Frankie away. And they told Madame Foster they were specially trained to help women who were like Frankie."

"Huh."

"And that's not all. There were these two _guy_ cops waiting at the hospital, and Madame Foster said they talked to her. She said they told her more about what was wrong with Frankie. But the guy cops couldn't go with Frankie and the lady nurses, Mac! The cops had to stay out by the front desk."

"_That's_ weird."

"So they must have been afraid the guy cops would catch whatever Frankie has! But the lady nurses _wouldn't. _And Madame Foster wouldn't, either."

"Wait a minute," Mac said. "Frankie's a girl. How could a _girl _have a disease that makes only _guys _sick?"

Bloo rolled his eyes. "Details, _details!_" he said impatiently. "Don't you _see,_ Mac? Frankie has a _contagious disease!_ It all makes sense!"

The boy thought. For a long moment. "No," he finally said. "I don't think that's it at all …"

Bloo huffed and crossed his arms. "Well, then, Mr. Smarty Pants, what do _you _think is wrong with Frankie?"

"I don't know," Mac said quietly.


	8. Chapter 8

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 8

"Mac …," Frankie began in the bedroom, "… sometimes, a man will try …" She fell silent.

"Try what?" the boy asked.

"OK. … Sometimes, a man will try to … force … his … _desire to make a baby_ … on a woman … who really doesn't want to make a baby … right then …"

"Mom told me something like that."

"Did she tell you that's … _wrong?_"

"Uh-huh."

"That it's an _attack _on the woman?" She paused. "That it's a crime?"

"Yeah ..."

She turned away from him, crossed her arms and looked down into her lap. Then down toward the book shielding the bottom of her groin.

"Mac," she said quietly, "that happened to me last week."

She was silent again and waited for his reaction.

"That's what my mom said," he whispered.

She looked back up at him. "She's right."

He studied her and felt she had changed somehow in just that instant. She seemed different, no longer the Frankie he knew but one who was more serious. And sadder. And – in a way – more distant. As if she were in a place anymore that would take him a long time – years, maybe – to get to.

"Frankie?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going … to have a baby now?"

She shook her head. "No, Mac, I don't think so."

"Why?"

_Oh, God,_ help me with this, she thought. "The night that guy attacked me, Grandma took me to the hospital."

He nodded. "Yeah, Bloo told me. He heard Madame Foster and Mister Herriman talking about it. That those special lady nurses treated you."

"_Bloo_ told you that?" She glanced away. "Little spud," she whispered disdainfully. "Gonna _talk_ to him …"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"So what happened at the hospital?"

"They checked me out to make sure I wasn't hurt too badly. And they also took samples of his hair and sem— …"

Mac saw her actually shake for an instant, then freeze. She turned back to him and looked very confused. And somewhat frightened.

He's _nine, _she suddenly thought. _Nine. Years. Old._

_NINE._

"_Sssssstufff_ …," she continued warily. "They found hair and … _stuff_ … that the guy … left on me … when he attacked me. The police will use it at his trial."

"Stuff like what?" he asked. He was sincerely curious.

" 'STUFF,' MAC! JUST … 'STUFF'! OK?"

He backed off. "OK, OK. … But why do you think you're not going to have a baby?"

She calmed down some. "OK … After they checked me out, they asked me if I wanted to take a … special shot. … And I said yes. Then they gave me a special pill to take this week." She took a deep breath. "Between the shot and the pill … I probably won't have a baby."

"How?"

"_Uhhnn_ …" She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose strongly with a thumb and forefinger. "Mac … _just take my word for it, OK?_"

"All right."

She opened her eyes. "Sorry, kiddo. I have a lot on my mind lately."

He nodded. "That's cool. … But, Frankie … don't you _want _to have a baby?"

"You know … actually … I do. Someday. But I want to make one with a man I truly love. And who truly loves me. And that we both want to have a baby equally. But that's _not _what happened here, Mac. Do you understand that?"

"Yeah. But why did he try it with _you?_"

She shrugged. "That's just the way he is, apparently. Some guys are like that. They don't ask the woman if it's OK."

"Then why'd you go out with him?"

"I thought I could _trust _him. But I found out I couldn't. I found out too late. I was wrong about him. I made a mistake."

"I'm sorry, Frankie," the boy said.

She answered quietly, distantly. "Me, too, kiddo. Me, too …"


	9. Chapter 9

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 9

After the night Mac saw Frankie come home, she became a whisper in the house. Or a rumor: spoken about – but unseen.

Mac finally found her a few days later. She was in the kitchen.

She was standing alone by the sink, eating a sandwich. A plate and a nearly empty glass of milk sat on the counter next to her. The sandwich stopped halfway in her mouth when Mac walked in.

"Frankie!" he said. "You're OK!"

She lowered the sandwich and studied it silently for a moment. "Hey, Mac …," she said, not looking at him. It sounded as if she didn't really care enough to say it but made the effort, anyway. She plopped the sandwich down on the plate and grabbed the glass. "What are _you_ doing here …?" She spoke it slowly, quietly, and as if he had no right to be there. Then she drank and waited for an answer.

"Getting cookies for me and Bloo," he said.

She swallowed. "Well … you know where they are …" Her tone sounded as if she didn't care that he was there. More than that: She didn't care about _anything_. The glass went down, and the sandwich went up again. And still, she didn't face him.

The boy went to the big ceramic cookie jar, opened it and took out two cookies. He stopped, thought for a moment and turned to her. "Want a cookie?"

"No." The back of her green jacket had answered him. The simple response left a sense that she had somehow been deeply offended by the question. Deeply offended, even, that he was bothering her.

"OK." He put the lid back on the jar, started to head out and chuckled. "More left for Bloo when he sneaks in next time."

"Like I _give _a damn about what _he _does ..."

Mac halted instantly. He had heard his mother use the mild profanity occasionally in his presence, but she immediately apologized and told him not to repeat it. It wasn't a good word for a little boy like him. Even so, he noticed, she continued to use it herself. He wondered when he'd be old enough to use it, too.

But he'd never heard Frankie use it. And now she had.

He turned toward her. She was still holding the sandwich, looking as if she was confused about what to do with it – and didn't really care, anyway.

"Frankie …," he began.

"Mac …," she said softly to the sandwich through gritted teeth – and anger started growing with each word – "leave … _me_ … _ALONE_…"

He couldn't.

"Frankie … are you all right?"

Frankie didn't answer. A monster did. A monster that looked like Frankie and spun around viciously toward him. Its face of rage and eyes of hatred shocked him.

And its wrenching roar filled the kitchen.

"_NO__!_ I'M _NOT_ ALL RIGHT, MAC! I'M NOT ALL RIGHT _AT ALL__!_ THAT _OK_ WITH YOU, LITTLE BOY? CAN I _NOT_ BE ALL RIGHT? DO I HAVE TO HAVE YOUR FUCKING _PERMISSION_ TO _NOT_ BE ALL RIGHT? _SHUT UP! __JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP__!_"

It made him fall back in fear, farther and farther away, even on the other side of the room. His heart beat fast. And he noticed – when his eyes finally left her deeply reddened, twisted face and his ears couldn't believe the vulgarity he had just heard – that she had crushed the sandwich in a shaking fist.

Silent seconds passed before she realized what she had done. She turned back to the counter sullenly and shook the sticky mess off her hand and onto the plate. With her clean hand, she turned on the water and started washing the other.

"What the hell would _you_ know about the real world, anyway …?" she muttered just above the splashing. "What the hell would _anyone_ in this damned place know …?"

She shut off the water and grabbed a towel off a hook on a wall cabinet. "God-damned _imaginary_ friends," she said to herself with a sneer. "Wouldn't last two minutes out there …"

Mac noticed that she wiped her hands insistently, as if she were trying to rub a stain off her. She didn't bother putting the towel back on the hook, instead throwing it in frustration on the counter next to the plate. Only then did she look back at him.

"You know, this house is a _dream world,_ _little boy,_" she said caustically. "You come in here and have all your little fun with Bloo and never _realize _that _out there_ –" She pointed at a wall sharply and kept pointing. "— the real world _hurts!_ It hurts _BAD!__!_ And the sooner you _realize _that, the _better!_ _Grow the_ _fuck up sometime!_"

The information was beyond Mac's mind to respond. So it answered with what it was capable of: "I'm … going to take these cookies … to Bloo … now …"

She glared at the child, then snarled. "Yeah. You _DO_ that_._"

He headed for the door. But when he got there, he felt compelled to look back one more time. Frankie had already turned away, rubbing her forehead with her fingers so strongly, he thought her skin would come off. Her eyes were closed, and her chin was trembling. And as Mac watched, a tear fell down her cheek.

She left him scared. So he left with the cookies. And he left her alone.


	10. Chapter 10

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 10

"My mom also said," Mac continued in the bedroom, "you could get sick … if that guy had an illness …"

Frankie blinked. "That's right, Mac. But I hope that doesn't happen."

"_Was_ he sick?"

She chuckled nervously. "Yeah, but not in the way _you're_ thinking of, kiddo."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. We don't know if he has any illnesses. Not yet. I was told they took blood from him at the jail. They'll check it for any diseases. And they took blood from me at the hospital, and they'll check that, too."

"When will you know something?"

"A few days."

The boy glanced down. "Bloo thought you had a disease."

Frankie's eyes flared, and her words came rapid-fire: "WHAT? What did he SAY? Who'd he TELL, Mac?"

Her barrage surprised him, and he waved his arms to clear out the confusion. "Just _me,_ Frankie, just me! He heard Madame Foster tell guys to stay away from you! He thought you could make guys sick! That's all!"

She calmed slightly but still fumed. "I _swear_ … the _next_ time I see that little spore …"

"Little what?"

"Never mind."

"OK …" He thought. "But … what if you _do_ get sick?"

She was quiet, then shrugged. "I don't know. … If that happens, we'll see what I'm sick with. Then we'll see what we can do about it."

"What if you _can't _do anything about it?"

A sigh. "Well … that's just the way it'll be. Sometimes in life, there aren't happy endings. I'm sorry, but it's true."

He looked down again. For a long moment. Then his question was soft and frightened:

"Frankie … could you die?"

A deeper sigh. "There _are_ some diseases he might have that _could _kill me, Mac. I won't lie to you about that."

She began to sound like a teacher, analytical and factual: "There's one that has no cure. There are medicines I could take to live with it for years and years. But I'd die of it _eventually._ Actually … _that_ disease would leave my body unprotected, and some other illness would sneak in and kill me. That's the simplest way I can explain it."

She watched as he processed the information, his head still bowed. The boy tried not to react, but soon she saw the tiniest quiver in his chin. He lifted his face, and moisture had built along the lower edges of his eyes.

"Frankie," he said, fighting the emotion that was trying to come out, "_please_ … _don't die_ …"

"Mac …" She said his name as if it were a reassuring hug. "I don't _want _to. And I haven't gotten the test results yet. I could be just fine. I hope I'm OK, but if they say I'm sick, I'll deal with it. But … I'll probably cry, too ..."

Her teacher persona returned. "But I think you're old enough to know that we _all _die someday. You, me, Grandma, your mom, Terrence. All of us."

He sniffled. "What about Bloo …?"

"Well … you're his creator, right?"

"Yeah."

"So when you die, your imagination will … end, right?"

"I suppose."

"And so the … _life _… that Bloo has – what makes him even just walk around – what'll happen to it?"

He didn't respond. He had done the math, didn't like the answer and didn't want to respond. Until: "How do you _know?_"

Frankie tried to be kind. "Mac, haven't you ever wondered _where_ all the _really_ old imaginary friends have gone? They're here one day, and the next, they're gone?"

"I don't _know._" He sounded stubborn.

"Think about it."

He said nothing.

"I'm waiting, Mac."

When he spoke, it was as if he were giving up a precious shield he didn't want to part with. "Their creators died …," he conceded, "… so they did … too …"

"Yes …" The teacher in the young woman sounded relieved. "I could tell you that all day, but it's better you accept it yourself. That's part of growing up."

He fidgeted in the chair. "Does growing up mean you hurt people, too, like that guy hurt you?"

"Well … there's hurting people physically and hurting people emotionally. How that guy hurt _me_ was physical violence. Violence isn't automatically part of growing up. It shouldn't be, anyway. But you can hurt someone's _feelings _without _meaning _to, right?"

"Yeah …"

"We all do that, Mac. Can't escape it. It's part of being human."

"But why would he hurt _you?_ He didn't even _know_ you. I mean, he _knew_ who you were, but …"

She waved a hand gently. "I know what you mean. Sometimes, things happen in the world that don't make any sense. But you just accept that they happen, and you go on with your life. You try to, anyway."

He was still unsure. "So you think it was OK for him to hurt you?"

"Oh, no, Mac. That will _never _be OK with me. I told you: He attacked me. It was a _crime._ But I accept that it happened. I can't change that. I can't unmake it, no matter how much I wish I could. It's something that happened to me. It's a part of me now. That'll be true for the rest of my life."

"Until you die?"

She closed her eyes. "Yes. Until the day I die …"


	11. Chapter 11

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 11

"Mac."

Hours after the kitchen, he spun around at the front door. She was there.

Frankie looked down at him, her face full of regret and contrition, and she held a sealed envelope. "Are you … heading home now?" she asked.

The boy, wary after the kitchen, leaned away from her slightly. "Yeah. I just said good night to Bloo."

"Yeah …" She sounded almost vacant. "Hey, Mac …"

"Uh-huh?"

"I'm very sorry about what happened in the kitchen. I haven't been feeling too well lately. I think you know that. And Grandma and I have to go to the police station tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to it."

"That's OK. I'm not angry."

"No. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. And the language I used with you was inexcusable. I should _never _talk to you like that. You deserve respect. Forgive me."

"OK."

She held out the envelope. He saw that it had his mom's name written on it. "Um …," she said, "This is for your mom. Would you give it to her, please?"

He took it. "Sure. What is it?"

"It tells her what … happened to me recently. She'll understand it. It might be better if she explains it to you. It's something she'll want to talk to you about someday, anyway."

Mac studied the envelope and shrugged.

Then she surprised him: She placed her hands on his shoulders and bent down. "You're a good kid, Mac," she whispered in his ear. "You should know that some things in life aren't as nice as you'd hope they'd be. But you can _always_ choose to be a good person. You _always _can. And I know you will. Good night."

She straightened slightly and kissed him on the forehead. And he could actually feel his cheeks burn with blushing.

She looked at him one last time and smiled. "Stay good, kiddo," she said softly.

Mac stared at her and raised his arm behind him. He swept for the doorknob three times before finally touching it. He opened the door, still gazing at her, then turned around and left.

As the door closed shut, she realized that he had seemed happily disoriented.


	12. Chapter 12

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 12

"You know," Mac said in the bedroom, "that other guy you went out with was a jerk, too. That guy who called you his property when you were at that restaurant."

"Well," Frankie answered, "there's being a jerk, and then there's being someone who hurts people. That first guy just made me mad. That's all. But the guy last week hurt me. Physically. That's much, much worse, Mac. Do you understand that?"

"Yeah." He squirmed in the chair a little bit. "Are _all _grown guys jerks, at least? Because I don't want to be one."

She grinned. "A jerk or a grown guy?"

"A jerk."

A smile. "Glad to hear it. Because I don't think you'll be able to avoid being a grown guy. If you're lucky – and safe. I think you will be."

"But what about being a jerk?"

"No, Mac, not all grown guys are jerks."

"I mean, those two guys were. And so is Terrence." He grimaced as he said the name.

A chuckle now. "I told you: Big brothers are there to pick on you. That's their job."

"He's still a jerk."

"Bet you'll be best buds when you grow up."

"Ugh …"

"People _change,_ Mac," Frankie observed. "Terrence might eventually become someone who really values his kid brother."

He tried to imagine it. For the moment, he couldn't.

"And you'll change by the time you get to Terrence's age," she said. "I'm sure of it."

"OK, but I don't want to be a jerk then."

"Well … remember what I told you when I gave you that note for your mom?"

"To stay good?"

"Uh-huh. And that's not going to be easy, Mac. The world outside this house can really, really hurt you."

"You said that in the kitchen," he recalled.

A smirk. "Before or _after_ I squished that sandwich?"

"Kind of at the same time."

A big grin. "Man, I _hate_ wasting good food."

"Then you can have my spinach the next time we have it."

"It's a deal, Popeye."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. It was before your time. Even mine." She thought. "But maybe not Grandma's ..."

"_Whatever_ …," he answered. "Is the grownup world really that bad?"

"It can be," she admitted. "But there are a lot of good things, too. Wonderful things. _Beautiful_ things, Mac. You can _always_ choose those. But it's like being on a tightrope. Ever seen someone walking on one of those?"

"Yeah. At a circus once."

"They have to focus on the rope to keep from falling down. They have to focus on the only path that'll keep them from getting hurt. Growing up is like that, too. If you hurt people, you've lost focus on the good things. Then you'll fall off the rope and end up being hurt, yourself. On the inside. In your heart. Do you understand?"

"So … that guy last week is hurt, too?"

"Yeah. In a _way._ What's sad is that he doesn't seem to care."

Mac was silent. "I don't want to be like _him_ …," he finally said.

Frankie studied him for a moment. When she spoke, it was as if she were trying to reassure herself as much as the boy.

"God," she whispered, "I hope you _never_ are …"

She closed her eyes and smiled. "Listen to me … talking to you like I'm your mom or something …"

Mac didn't say anything to that. He knew only that in fact, she _had _sounded like his mom. Because his mom had said things like that to him the night before. Somehow, she had sounded afraid and hopeful at the same time.

The image of his mom reminded him of something. "I almost forgot," he said. "My mom asked me to give you a note, too." He slid off the chair, grabbed his book bag and brought it over to the bed. He unzipped the bag, fished out the note and handed it to her.

Then Mac zipped up the bag and put it on. "She told me not to read it. I swear I didn't."

"I believe you," she said. She decided to open it after he left. He'd probably ask what his mom wrote, and maybe it was something Mac wouldn't understand quite yet.

"OK." He noticed the time on her clock/radio on the nightstand. "I gotta go home now."

"All right. Thanks for stopping by and giving me this," she replied, waving the note slightly. "Good night, Mac."

" 'Night."

He headed for the door, then stopped and turned around. "Frankie?"

She smiled. "That's my name, kiddo."

"I …" he paused and pondered. "… don't want to be someone who would hurt _you._ I promise I won't."

She felt a sudden warmth – a sister's love, even a mother's – inside. "Mac," she said, motioning him back, "come here."

He returned. She leaned over and embraced the boy tightly. His left cheek pressed against her soft, warm breasts, and Mac felt again the burning blushing on his face.

But even with the burning, he thought, this felt very … very … nice ...

Frankie bent her head down like before and whispered again into his ear.

"Your word is good enough for me, kid— …" She halted and reconsidered. Then she finished:

"… little man …"

And once again, she straightened slightly and kissed his forehead.

She released him and saw his blushing. The happy disorientation was already back on his face. "I … gotta go … home … now …," he repeated, mostly to himself.

"Well, GO, then!" she yelled playfully.

He scanned the room for something. "Where's … my bag …?"

She giggled. "On your back."

He glanced behind himself as far as he could. "Oh, yeah …" He returned to the door, opened it and walked almost past it. He stopped again and faced her a final time. "Good night, Frankie. Really."

" 'Night, Mac. Really."

He disappeared, and the door clicked shut.

Only then did she let out a huge sigh. Only then did she notice that she had been tensing up during the whole conversation. Only then did she relax, and the release almost physically hurt.

Good _God,_ she thought, is explaining the world to a child _always _that hard? Well … Mac was good practice, she conceded, for when she had her own children. Maybe she'd get better by then. She hoped so.

And she had a healthier respect for Mac's mom now.

Speaking of whom …

She opened the note.


	13. Chapter 13

("Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends," its characters and situations are copyright of their respective owners. Story copyright 2011 by George Pollock, Jr. All rights reserved.)

I Spoke as a Child

by

George Pollock, Jr.

Part 13

Frankie had noticed that her name on the envelope was written in black ink as "Miss Frances Foster." The response inside was written in a mature, authoritative hand on the back of her original note, which was written in blue and had a flustered feel.

The reply had a confident, decisive tone, as if the author knew exactly what to say and didn't need to reconsider it.

"_Frankie:_

"_I'm __horrified __to hear what happened! MY GOD! Hope you're at least settled down by now. I __know__ that __doesn't__ mean everything is all right. My prayers are with you._

"_Thanks for asking me to explain to Mac what happened. I wasn't happy that he's been going back to Foster's after I told him not to, but that's not important now._

"_Mac's a smart kid for 9, and he might ask you more questions about this. (He asks a LOT of questions at home!) Please be patient with him._

"_Anyway, you've survived, and that shows you're strong. Never forget that! DON'T call yourself a victim! Call me if you need anything to help you through this. Anytime. I know your grandmother loves you, but you might want to talk to someone closer to your age. _

"_I know this time won't be easy, but there's a lot of help out there for you. Here's a list of the rape counseling centers in town."_

Below was a list of names, addresses and telephone numbers. She decided to review them later. Actually, she had received a similar list at the hospital that night last week.

She put the note down and considered reading her book again. She looked at it, covering the bottom of her groin. On one hand, she wanted to keep reading it.

But she couldn't help but think that for right now, she wanted to leave it right where it was.


End file.
